barefoot 3

Eileen smiled back at Tom, and paused, then slowed her walk. She glanced back to check her reflection in a car window, then startled as the glass suddenly rolled down.

“Nice hair,” a familiar voice laughed. “Kind of unkempt, you know,” he continued, “like you didn’t have to try too hard.” Eileen jumped, and felt her face warm as she looked back at the beat-up metal, all wrapped around a hemi engine. No. She looked away, froze, then looked back.

“Please leave!” Eileen whispered, nearly shaking in anger. Six months. He had been gone for six months, gone in a cloud of dust, tires spinning, leaving her on the side of that old dirt road. And now he had come to the big city, today, of all days, as though he knew, as though he could monitor her attraction to other men.

“All right, honey,” blackstrap voice deep and low. “I just drove up here to say I miss you. You’re lookin’ awful pretty, Eileen, you sure are.” Smoother when warm, yes he was. He started the car, pipes purring as he slowly pulled away.

Tom walked toward Eileen, “Are you all right?” he asked, now close. Eileen felt dizzy, and shut her eyes. Already, she had been in a rush, and now Luke Dupre had returned, once more, as inconvenient as the first time Eileen had seen him, as inconvenient as he always was. Tom put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you know him? Did he threaten you?”

“He surprised me,” Eileen answered, as she opened her eyes, surprised now more by Tom’s presence, his concern, his hand briefly on her arm, his shirt neatly tucked into the trim jeans, muscular legs beneath the denim. Eileen looked up. “I just didn’t expect anyone to be sitting in that car.”

“I’m surprised the piece of crap runs!” Tom scoffed. “Are you ready?” he asked, as he offered his arm. “Shall we?…”

“Sure…” Eileen hooked her arm in his. “Yes,” she straightened as she felt Tom’s strength, warm and certain. “Yes, we shall.”  And they walked down the street.

For a few moments, the two walked in silence. Eileen felt faint as soon as her thoughts started to wander, so difficult it seemed to make ordinary conversation. Just now, starting out fresh, Tom seemed thoughtful, and conscientious. And hot. No denying it, Tom was attractive.

A yellow-shafted flicker flew low, and landed on the trunk of an old poplar tree.

“Look!” Eileen shouted. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” Tom answered.

“There, the flicker!” Eileen pointed to the tree.

“What is a flicker?” Tom asked her, looking as the bird went to work drumming. “The woodpecker?”

“Yes,” Eileen walked a little closer, closer, as the bird pecked around to the other side of the tree. She watched for a minute, and moved closer. The bird flew away.

“Oh, I scared it,” Eileen sighed.

“So you are quite the birder,” Tom remarked.

“Flickers are not so unusual,” Eileen said. “I just like them.”

A blue heron lumbered above the rooftops, flying no doubt between the two nearby ponds.

“I like them, too,” Eileen pointed at the heron.

“Now, what is that one called?” Tom asked.

“Really?” Eileen thought. “It’s a heron,” she answered. “I think they are lucky, but really, it is storks that are lucky. It’s just that we don’t have storks, so herons must be the closest thing.”

“Storks are lucky?” Tom asked. “Well, I guess babies are lucky.”

“Babies don’t come from storks, you know,” teased Eileen.

“Well, I can see I have a whole lot of learning to do,” Tom teased back. “Say, I can show you something you’ll like a lot,” Tom said.

“Show me what?” Eileen paused, flustered as her filthy eyes drifted unavoidably, quickly, to Tom’s jeans. What? Show her what? “You have a baby?” she joked.

“No, no babies here,” Tom said. “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise…” Eileen repeated, her heart beating a little quicker as she began to recall her early afternoon reveries. “Hmm. You aren’t going to give me a hint?”

Tom kept walking, a grin now spreading.

“So, where are we going for coffee?” Eileen asked, changing the subject.

“There is a place just down the street,” Tom suggested.

“Where Have You Bean.” Eileen confirmed. She knew the place, the only place nearby except Dunkin’ Donuts, which thankfully was not the place he had in mind.

“I’ve been here all along,” Tom answered, and he stopped, turned, put his hand on Eileen’s shoulder. “Are you sure you are all right?” Tom asked, crinkling his forehead as he looked at her. Eileen looked at him, confused, saw his face clear, then turn red.

“Oh, you mean the coffee place…” Tom corrected himself. ”By the way,” Tom continued, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Eileen,” she answered, holding out her hand to shake.

“Eileen…” Tom repeated. “I’m Tom. Pleased to meet you, again,” he answered as he shook her hand, then held it tight for a moment before he let it go, then turned to walk again beside her.

They continued down the street toward town, now chatting, laughing. Tom was nice, easy. He smelled clean, green, clear, uncomplicated, direct, and the shock of Luke Dupre floated far from Eileen’s mind.

barefoot 2

The grandfather clock chimed the last three bells of the hour: eleven o’clock, already, the clock face said. Eileen shut the door behind her as she looked around the cluttered entry hall, scrambling first to toss shoes into the closet, to pick up the last week’s mail and papers that had gathered on the table next to the door.

Rush rush, it was a distraction, this concern for neatness and order and first appearances and respectability, this date, this coffee, this expectation for something, what?, something. He was handsome, yes, this was true, thoughtful enough to look after her, attracted, it seemed, it was fucking obvious. Her cunt throbbed as she thought of his cock bulging beneath the running shorts, as she thought of this entry hall, his soothing hands now roughly holding her wrists up to the wall as he would growl into her ear. You like it like this, he would tell her, he would know. Eileen slipped her fingers beneath her panties, wet, of course, wetter. Dizziness overwhelmed her, she longed for this fuck-drunken want, a rare thing still, not rare to lust in general, to want sex, but precious to want so specifically, him, to imagine his hand now gliding over his thick cock perhaps, perhaps right now, perhaps his own thoughts of reaching round to unfasten her pants, to catch the string of her panties, to rip, push his fingers between her swollen lips. She pushed her fingers into her pussy, sighed, dashed up the stairs to lie down.

The bed was unmade, still, bad girl, the sheets turned back already. Eileen pushed off her shorts, and pulled her damp t-shirt over her head. Her bra was wet, and her nipples stuck to the fabric as she unfastened the back and peeled clothing off, exposing her skin to the cool room. Nipples hardened, and she touched them, thrilled still more with the flutter in her belly as she felt herself. Delicious to touch, to slow, to wait, to want, too much, she fell to the bed, back, eager for satisfaction, but more, the intensity of desire. A tease, she told herself, oh, just a little. Her panties fell from her hand to the ground, her legs fell apart, spread a little, a little wider, oh. Yes.

It was the clock downstairs that awakened Eileen, a half hour? a quarter? She wasn’t sure, rolled to see the alarm clock. One-thirty? Already? No, two-thirty! Two-thirty, slow clock, two-forty! She jumped, looked at her hair, still pulled from the pony tail, strands pulled loose, fix later. The red panties, bra, go ahead, if not now, then when? Pants. No, not those. Skirt. Yes, no. Sweater, shirt better, button to here, no, one more, on second thought, no, yes red shows through, too late now, too late, lipstick, leave now, go, he is waiting. Go now.

Tom stands on a corner, two fifty-eight. He stands, and watches, jeans, henley shirt. He stands and watches her wild hair loose now as she pulls the pony tail out and glances at her reflection in a car window. A mess, she is. A mess I’ll tell you, he will see her lack of order, her chaos, her respectability non-existent now, the lusty nap evident, isn’t it? she thinks, better to know now, she thinks, then doubts. Then he smiles.

barefoot

Eileen stopped at the end of the sidewalk, bent over and felt the bottom of her bare foot once more. It was liberating to run through the streets with naked feet, but she had gained a new awareness of litter and public drunkenness in the process of dodging the constant remnants of Dunkin’ Donuts packaging and broken liquor bottles.

“Damn,” Eileen said as she cringed. Blood trickled onto her hand as she pulled on the sliver of glass caught on the ball of her foot. She put her foot back onto the ground, and despite the cut, felt little pain. So she stood, rocked back and forth, then ran on in the cool morning, sun just risen in the early Sunday quiet, not a car, not a dog, not a sound but the birds and the wind, and Eileen’s own breath.

The leaves were vivid in the low light of the day, promising deep blue sky. Eileen had discovered this splendor, and the freedom of morning runs, in the summer. The first time without shoes felt strange, as though she had broken into a world no longer allowed to her as an adult. But as her feet and legs became stronger, she began to revel in the glory of air. Her running shorts became shorter; her tops revealed more and more of her skin to the sun.

Now it was fall, though, and the lack of cover was apparent in the breeze; stopping had left her shivering now in her sweat-soaked clothing. She ran on, warming slowly, the ache in her foot now returning. Eileen bent over once more. Her foot was still bleeding, now somewhat worse. She saw a spot behind her, and looked back to a trail of red dots on the sidewalk where she had just run.

“Hello, are you all right?” a fellow runner stood now at Eileen’s feet, his short black hair slick, sweat beading on his forehead, even today. She had not heard him approach, and fell back when he spoke.

“Yes, yes,” she said, standing quickly and brushing sand from the back of her shorts, then standing bashfully with her hands in front of her. In her surprise, she had not initially noticed his powerful legs, the strong shoulders beneath the white t-shirt. “It’s just a small cut,” Eileen explained. “I can walk home.”

“Are you sure?” the stranger asked. “I live very close if you need a bandage.”

Eileen was wary of men out in the early morning–most around these streets were red-eyed, reeking of cologne and smoke and late-night trouble. There were sometimes a few dog walkers and fellow joggers, an occasional professional walking with quick determination, if Eileen was late in returning from her own morning run. This stranger looked familiar, she thought, although she could not place where she had seen him.

“Really,” the man continued, “I live right there.” And he pointed to a brick walk-up a little farther down the street. “Come on, you should cover that cut.” He motioned to her, and she began to walk with him. “I’m Tom,” he said, as he held out his hand to support her for the few steps to his home.

“Why don’t you sit here?” Tom offered, and Eileen sat on a lower stair. “I’ll be right back.”

Tom returned several minutes later with a pan of water, a towel, and a small bag.

“What’s all this?” Eileen looked at Tom as he kneeled below her, and placed her injured foot into the soapy water. “I didn’t expect a full pedicure.”

“Just cleaning your wound,” Tom smiled as he sat cross-legged on the ground below. The water was warm, and smelled faintly of pine. Tom’s wet t-shirt clung to his chest, and Eileen’s heart raced as his hands slipped into the water and onto her foot.

“I don’t think you are bleeding anymore,” Tom smiled, as he pulled her foot out of the water and looked at it. He let her foot fall back into the warm water.

It was warm, so soothing to relax like this in the cool air. Eileen leaned back, and the cold cement of the stair surprised her, as goosebumps popped up along her arm. Her nipples hardened, and she tensed as she realized how strange this was, Tom taut and handsome sitting beside the pan of water on his porch. He smiled again, and Eileen thought to pull her foot out, aware of her legs spread open.

“All better?” Tom asked, dipping his hands into the water and rubbing Eileen’s foot roughly. His hand kneeded her feet, massaging her toes, her arch. Eileen felt that familiar knot  in her belly as his fingers pushed into the sensitive spots at the base of her toes. She suppressed a moan, then realized that she was red, that his shorts were bulging, too, as he looked up at her. He let go of her foot, and reached for the towel, then pulled her foot from the water and wrapped it.

“Yes, I think it’s better,” Tom answered himself, and stood, then bent to pick up the pan. He turned and emptied the water into the gutter. Eileen watched him, and pushed her legs together, now aware of her wet panties, her senses on fire now as he brushed beside her to take the pan into the house. “I have to find a band-aid now,” Tom said as he walked quickly up the stairs.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Eileen heard his footsteps on the stairs inside, a stop. Finally, he opened the door again, and came with a box.

“They are all tiny, I am afraid,” Tom apologized as he sat on the stair beside her. “Will this work?”

Eileen took the small band-aid from him, “Do you have anything bigger?” she asked him. “You have already been so kind,” she said quickly, then embarrassed by her comment as she saw his shorts tighten again.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked.

“I am not too far from here,” Eileen stammered, then wishing she had said yes, wishing suddenly to be alone with him. She imagined reaching across the stick shift to his muscular legs, her hands reaching beneath the shorts. She imagined running her hand gently along the length of his thick shaft, his sigh, his rough beard against her face, because he would have to pull over, she knew, his kisses running from her face to her shoulders to

“Or a coffee?” Tom interrupted her thought.

“Okay, sure.” Eileen stood, now feeling cold, and naked. “But maybe in a while? I should get something warm to wear.”

“How about this afternoon?” Tom answered, now grinning. “Meet me here at 3:00?”

Eileen stood straight now, too. “Sure,” she said. “3:00 is perfect.”

a short response

Dear x,

You write to me of your “strong urges”. So what sort of strong urge do you have right now?

What do you do with such urges? Do you just forget about them, or do you have to do something to relieve the tension?

I think you have wicked, naughty thoughts that you can’t ignore.I like to think about you stroking your cock, getting harder. I like thinking about your new vibrator, in deep so that one end drives your ass wild, and the other end touches your balls.

Ah, but this week is too busy to meet, isn’t it? We’ll have to wait.

In the meanwhile, you can think wicked, brazen thoughts.  So, think of this:  tomorrow morning, when I would normally be working, I will go back upstairs and spread my legs wide open. My vibrator will take your place if you cannot be here. All night, I will be thinking about it, so when I get back into bed, I’ll need to relieve my strong urges, too.

When my clit is so sensitive, I really don’t need this intense a sensation, you know, even on the slow speed–it is so strong that I can’t really stand it for very long. It makes me come very fast. Too fast.

It makes me want more.

I want your face buried between my legs, your tongue, circling my clit. You drive me wild when you tease me that way, when you tie me down and bring me so close to climax, then leave me gasping, still wanting more. I want to push your face down, but instead my back arches to push against you.

How long would you make me wait for your cock to ram my hot pussy?

Would you keep me tied, or would you flip me over to spank me, then fuck my ass?

Let me know if you have any further thoughts on this subject.

xxx

L.D.

grass

The curtain swelled in the breeze, and the chugging chugging down below let into a pause, then another chug, and a whirr, and my peace was broken in the warm morning. The clock said ten a.m., which was impossible, I thought, the neighbors disturbing my morning so early, not so early, not the neighbors. It was you. You, tracing along the edge of hostas in the only shadows of a hot day, the tall grass lying in clumps as you circle my yard.

I am not supposed to be here, not now, not supposed to watch you bending to wipe your head with the bottom of that wet t-shirt. The grass has held the last days’ rain, now the sweet ancient scent of weeds, and summer, and the grass, small blades stuck to your calves and sockless ankles. Tea from the jug on the back porch, melting the ice as I pour it, and you look up. I didn’t bother to dress.

Grass rinses down the shower drain, soap smooth as I lather your chest, your tight back, familiar paths, the sliding mm, swell tightening, slick lather speeds my hand. I cannot help but grab you, you near bursting beneath the hot water, dirt rinsing from your neck, irresistible astringent, you Tarzan, I kiss your shoulders, your rough face, your tongue warm and soft while you pin me to the tiles, kick my legs open, the water beading in my hair, waiting, waiting, I gasp. You smile, and kiss my cheek, reach for two towels, hand me one.

You are silent as you bend to dry your feet, arousal on hold.

You are face down now, waiting for me this time, waiting for what? a whip? a kiss, a finger, my call, grass, delight, once, twice, three strikes, my, your red shoulders, the t-shirt, then when you will have gone, a ghost, a gift, a moment, a wait, a great desire, to sleep again.

it’s raining again

This subject is trite. And yet I cannot stop myself from writing another piece about the soft raindrops falling outside, the pitter-patter on my roof, the way it makes me feel.

The unfortunate truth about this is that it is true, completely true. The rain whets my lust. I want you most on days like this, on days when I  sit beside you as we drive to some sort of bliss, with windshield wipers, and the grey comfort of clouds, no reason to venture beyond this shelter on a day like this, after all. I could have you all to myself, then, here.

I remember days like this, yearn for them once more, the thrill.

The thrill of the warmth, yes, but the wet, the unrelenting wet as I go out in spite of you without my umbrella. You feel compelled to follow me, to chase me, running, to find me, finally, to kiss me, here, in this cool rain, in my wet warmth, my excuse to undress you, to kiss your head, to warm you then, in showers, warm showers, to embrace you here, beneath the warm water, the slick wish, oh yes, I’ll say it now, I want you, I want you now.

But, of course, this being a trite exercise in writing about rain, in writing–really–I am aware of the distant, the intangible. And still…

And still, it is urgent, this desire. It is urgent, to me, to want you, to want you to want me, to want rain, to want wet, what, where, when?

pancakes

You asked me to make pancakes.

I do not eat pancakes–shouldn’t, I say–but I made them anyway, for you.

The batter is lumpy in the yellow melamine mixing bowl, and I look at it, grudgingly pouring small circles onto the hot griddle. It is too hot, butter burning now beneath the cakes. You say you love that smell, and reach beneath me to open the oven, to pull the bacon from the broiler.

I watch your cakes bubble up on top, slowly, milk sweet, hot, scalding sweet, with the coffee you have made, the wood musty in this far-off cabin of yours, bugs humming, birds, peas-in-Canada, I hear, when you open the back door and whistle, your cat’s sleek fur now circling my ankles as I flip quickly, flip, quickly, and they are nearly ready, bacon, crisp, two plates, and your porch, two chairs, a small table between us, last night’s beer bottles and my flip-flops, our swimsuits flung over the railing. I can see my breath in the cool, the humid now near the lake, there beyond the fog. The coffee is so hot, your breath so hot, kisses hot in the early morning, the violets in the meadow, spring dew, you pinching my nipples as I carry two plates, the syrup hanging from my fingertip.

I should never eat these things, but you are right. They are perfect, burned butter, syrup, bacon, coffee. I am a child again. This is bliss, yes, morning, yes, you, yes, so comforting, so familiar, so inevitable, it seems, in the haze of morning, Ivory soap on your hands now as you turn my face toward yours. I might sleep again, soon, might fall back into bed with you, your kisses. Might wake, too, to wander through the dewy violets, to the water, warmer than the air, you were right. I might jump in, if you asked me, might swim in these dark waters, these known waters, these waters I have loved for so long, might dive, then, into the deep, might come up for air, might, might, wish I may, I might make pancakes again for you.

lullaby

Right now, rock me. Yes, that’s right: rock me, my exhausted body falling into yours, sleep overcoming us both, for now.

Long for this, delicious slumber, endless time, a dream, long, disrupted in the end by dawn’s gentle nudge, flesh awakened, startled… thrilled.

labyrinth

My skirt flutters in the breeze as I walk past the empty daytime houses, shoes dusty from the shortcut through backyards, through last fall’s leaves scattered once more in the days that have held tight to early spring. It all seems endless now, the wind and the cool, summer teasing so early this year, then blown away. I have lost my way, it all seems so familiar, yes, this warmth, I want, I am home again, yes, impatient, yes.

The quiet here torments me, the after laughter, scene of passion, skin still longing somehow, burning, skin that hours earlier seemed so satisfied.

I want you.

I want the sting, steam rising from the bath, my skirt slid over my hips and onto the cold tile, my sweater tossed upon the towels, your slap once more revived in the hot water,  moment recalled, the image in the mirror fogged, forgotten, the wish for the unexpected, the wandering, the bittersweet intensity of my lips wet and anticipating, the desire to retrace measures of pain and pleasure, the sublime, the careful dance.

Gnossienne number 1: the path of your fingertips.

blue, thoughts on

Oh, baby. Yes. B.B. King is wailing on your hi-fi, all night long. I am kissing you, my cunt grinding into your thigh, and you are totally into it, mmm hmm. Your cock is full, hard, and you know you are going to fuck me soon enough. So you hold back a little, make me want a little, make me grind a little more into you, while you run your hands along my waist curving widely down to my hips, then stop. You pat my ass, and I am about to come when you squeeze me, you indecent slut.

It’s so good to sit with you here, here on this long, slow night, the living room still dark, your invitation to dinner still lingering in the future somewhere past this slow, slow desire, this slow, slow kiss, this slow slow groping of my right breast while your mouth trails down from my lips to my neck to my swollen nipples. Damn, yes, you are sucking hard like a baby, not like a baby, baby, you turn me on too much for that your tongue circulating, your strong hands ripping down my shirt, my skirt, wet, you.

I am feeling you now, damn, the slowness of your cock bulging from those navy briefs, your jeans, take them off, all off, let me take them off you, torture, you wanted it, and I am going to fuck you so slowly that you cannot stand my hesitation, my will always greater than yours. You would have fucked me long ago, but stop, letting it build, wildly, reason has gone, and music. Well, music is still there, too, and we are all waiting to see just how far you want to go with this.

You are enraged now, yes, I know. You have pushed me round, your hand stinging more than my ass, I won’t tell you that; you are aroused by the red imprint you left on white skin, now spread, lifted, your cock plunging quickly deep, deeper, your finger digging deep up my ass, the mere thought lewd beyond all control, your cock fighting the urge to explode quickly, but to no avail.

I find you, you somewhere deep within all this, connecting me, me somewhere beyond the realm of the nice, the explicable, the logical. I want you now, know you here, lift my hips a little higher on a down beat, as you cry out, filling me as I grab you once more. Yes, yes, give it all to me now.  Fill me up and hold me.

Blue, I want you here now, want the luxury of dark, and slow music. Want you.